The Irish village that said 'no' to austerity

The usually placid people in the Irish hamlet of Ballyhea have been so enraged by the government's austerity measures that they have taken to marching in the streets every Sunday. But has anyone noticed?

Ballyhea villagers march against the bond-holder bailout Photograph: Facebook

As the bus pulls up on the empty road to let me off, the driver smiles at me. "This is rush hour," he jokes. "This is the most exciting thing to happen here all day." If there is one thing people know about Ballyhea, it seems, it's that it is in the middle of nowhere and nothing much happens. The taxi driver who drove me to Cork warned me of its sleepiness, and the woman sitting next to me can't understand why I am here. But the reason is simple: Ballyhea may be quiet, but it's angry.

Residents have started marching in the hamlet – a smattering of farms and a small housing estate, pulled together by a church, petrol pump and school. The demonstration isn't long – starting from the church they walk along the main road, which connects Cork to Limerick, for a little over 10 minutes, turning back when they reach the speed-limit sign. Yet it has happened every Sunday, through rain and sun, with rising then dwindling numbers, for 43 weeks.

The march's organiser, Diarmuid O'Flynn, says he was inspired by the Arab spring, but it's hard to think of a place further from the heat and turmoil of the Middle East than the misty fields of County Cork. Which isn't to say the inhabitants' fury isn't real.

Dubbed the "Celtic tiger" in the 1990s, Ireland is struggling under savage austerity measures. The property boom, fuelled by banks' massive lending and foreign investment, collapsed spectacularly when the financial crises plunged the country into devastating recession in 2008. "Personal wealth has been destroyed, thousands of people are sinking into poverty, emigration has returned and unemployment is far too high," finance minister Michael Noonan admitted in December as he announced £1.4bn in tax and charge rises in a bid to drive down the country's debt from a shocking 10.1% of the country's GDP to 8.6% this year. Unemployment has risen to 14.4%, with those unable to find work leaving the country in droves; next year, the Economic and Social Research Institute predicts, 40,000 people will emigrate.

But the part that has got the blood of the mild Ballyhea marchers boiling is the bond-holder bailout. In 2008, fearing a run on the banks, the country's former finance minister Brian Lenihan agreed to give an unlimited guarantee covering most of the bonds issued by Irish banks. At the time, it seems, he was unaware how much this could cost. The IMF, on the other hand, believed the bondholders should be "burned" and made to pay for their own mistakes, but pressure from the European Central Bank ensured this guarantee was retained. Morgan Kelly, professor of economics at University College, Dublin, has said the true cost of the bank debt could amount to €100bn and warned: "Ireland is facing economic ruin."

Since O'Flynn, a sports reporter at the Irish Examiner, realised the scale of the problem, he has been posting on his blog the ominous amounts the banks must pay out as bonds mature – this month the total will be €3bn. "Where is the money going to come from?" he asks. "Our banks are bust. So it's going to come from us."

Yet while the motives may be close to the Occupy movement, whose anger has swept through the US, UK and now arrived in Ireland (Cork's Occupy camp proudly displays one of Ballyhea's two banners), that's where the comparison ends. While the Occupy camps have been criticised for being too unfocused, and characterised as anti-capitalist, Ballyhea's campaign is determinedly single issue and non partisan. "We are not trying to save the world," O'Flynn tells me. "And it is not about the left and right. It is about right and wrong."

Denis McNamara agrees. Aged 64, he had never been on a march. A farmer and businessman, from one of the parish's well known families, his concrete business felt the full effects when the the construction market collapsed. Yet it is not this that angers him. "I don't object to the fiscal adjustments in the economy; we can't spend more than we earn. What I do totally object to is repaying the bond-holders – who we had no responsibility for. We object to the government, without any consultation with the people, securing the money owed to those people [the bond-holders]."

McNamara agrees many people in the traditionally wealthy "Golden Vale" that Ballyhea sits in are "very conservative". The timing of the march is dictated by the end of mass and attendance numbers by the fixtures of the Gaelic Athletics Association; hurling, a traditional Gaelic ball and stick game, is hugely important in the area and gives the parishes their strong identity. Which is why there are no chants, whistles or drums on the protests. "We are a pretty dignified people," says O'Flynn, "so I thought, 'Have it dignified and quiet'; just the fact we are marching – just let our feet do the talking."

So far the event's biggest controversy was a recent decision to march on a Friday afternoon, to increase the impact. "You can see how quiet it is on a Sunday, sometimes we were only holding up one car," says O'Flynn. But causing a disruption made too many of the protestors feel uncomfortable, and after a few weeks normal times were resumed.

Yet the mild, almost polite, nature of the protest, and the comfortable backgrounds of many of the marchers, does not mean the community has avoided the impact of the recession. O'Flynn points out that until a few years ago his brother and his family all lived in Ballyhea. "He is an engineer in the Philippines now, his son is in Poland and his two daughters are in England – there's no work around here."

Eithne Keating, 55, who has been marching every week since June, lost her job distributing meals on wheels. Her 29-year-old son, a former groundsman, and her husband are also both unemployed. "The banks and big business were the ones making money and now we are the ones paying for it," she says. "It's so hard right now."

O'Flynn says at first he was sure that once people knew of the marches they would take off across the country. Instead, despite a few neighbouring towns starting their own and numbers in Ballyhea swelling to 70, people have lost heart. O'Flynn says the Irish media have more or less ignored them. "People are angry, no doubt about it. On the sidewalk they shout: 'Well done! Good stuff! Keep it going,' and we would say: 'Fall in with us, we are only walking up as far as the church and down to the library.' But no. People almost universally support what I am doing, but they think it is a waste of time. People feel powerless.

"I worked in Libya for three years and I know that what people were doing in Benghazi, well, they were taking their life into their hands. So, I say to the people here: 'You are not going to be shot, or gassed. You are not going to be torn apart – you just have to go out and walk.'"

It's an attitude that has been noted across the country. Despite the drastic cuts, house repossessions and job losses, there have been none of the explosive, violent protests of Greece. A year ago there was a march of 100,000 people in Dublin, but since then protests have been muted – leading commentators to ask why the Irish are taking it so quietly. Many say it's because they know it's payback for living beyond their means during the boom. But O'Flynn dismisses this.

"Around here people didn't go mad. This propaganda that we all partied through the good times is complete bullshit." Instead he blames the lack of civil disobedience on "bystander syndrome". "The more witnesses you have to a crime the less likely people are to intervene – I think that's what happening. This is the biggest bank robbery in history. The difference is it's the banks robbing us."

McNamara says many people are worried about being seen protesting, fearing it may affect their jobs, or their ability to borrow money from the banks. And both men agree that many Irish people just feel too despairing to believe they can make a difference.

The day I join them a cold rain is beginning to fall. Some weeks ago as numbers dropped, the Ballyhea marchers decided to join with the demonstration they sparked in neighbouring Charleville and alternate their protest location. There are only around 30 marchers when I meet them outside Charleville church, but it's a cheerful, determined group.

Warehouse manager Pat Maloney, 45, started the Charleville marches and is out today with his 12-year-old son, Alex. "I thought I would check out the Ballyhea march and I realised it makes sense. It's not our debt. I was never given any money from the banks when things were going well, but now they want us to pay their debts? People here are marching to save local hospitals, and police stations, but they should make the connection."

Frances O'Brien, 73, has been marching since the first day, and says she will continue because she is so worried for her grandchildren's future. As the march starts down the high street, the demonstrators chat quietly about local sport and shopping. The shops are shut and the streets are quiet apart from people hurrying to mass, but a car toots as it goes by and a lorry is forced to slow to a crawl by the cluster of protestors.

Outside the church, Thomas Nelligan is collecting money for a youth group. He says he wouldn't consider joining a march on a Sunday morning. "A lot of people might agree with the issue but they wouldn't walk. I think a lot of people are angry, but don't like to show their feelings or be singled out ... it's just not Irish."

Accounting student Barry McCarthy, 19, thinks it is a waste of time. He too is angry with the banks, but the march is too local to make a difference and is just a nuisance, he insists. Yet as the Ballyhea marchers disperse, dismantling their two signs, they refuse to give into lethargy and despair. "You definitely go through some terrible lows," says O'Flynn. "I thought a lot of these people were coming down because I was asking. So, I said to the group: 'Should we just pack it in?' But, 'No, no,' [they said]; they were determined."

Instead, he says, they will continue to quietly register their anger, for the weeks and months to come. "At this stage it's not about how many – it's about how long."